


Capturing Eugene

by aLittleLimeTree



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aLittleLimeTree/pseuds/aLittleLimeTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-valid maid Isla Posey enters the house of the prestigious Mr. Morrow only to find a broken man drinking himself out of existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capturing Eugene

**Author's Note:**

> I have no ownership whatsoever over Gattaca and its characters and you know the rest.

 The road leading up to the house is endless. The building gleams in the afternoon sun as it gazes down arrogantly from its perch on the hill. I have already gained enough of the information every maid must pick up upon arrival(that cleaning this place properly would take a heck of effort). It would be wiser to pay attention to my driving now, but the sight of the apartment has my attention, and there are practically no cars moving by mine besides. The building faces the ocean; it is sophisticated and modern with its many windows and seamless exterior walls. The top of the main building is very geometric, its point jutting into the sky as if to pierce it. It's a beautiful piece of architecture and very nice to look at, but stillㅡeven with all those windows and that room made only of glass panes, it overall feels rather cold and closed off. The sky is blue, and the still potent rays of the sun on my face is as warm and bright as butter melting down a stack of pancakes, but when it comes to that building the sun seems to serve only one purpose: to act as a perfect spotlight for the apartment that houses an almost-perfect man. For some reason I don't think the light ever gets to really reach inside the house and warm it, light things up. Maybe it's because the place feels so closed off, but I don't know if what I see is necessarily true. I only know that as I approach the house an odd sort of heaviness, different from the dread some of my coworkers would feel when faced with an apartment of that size, is settling in me and I don't really know the cause of it either. 

 In two minutes I'm parking my father's old, worn out car along the curb. Get my cleaning equipment. Look around as I press the doorbell and feel a chill.

"Afternoon, Mr. Morrow, I'm from Marileau's Maid Services, I believe you called asking for our services yesterday?"

The voice of a young man, low and raspy as if from prolonged disuse, brusquely answers, "Come in."

The first thing I see as I step into the main part of the house is a spiral staircase snaking its way up to the second floor on a pole of steel. It's not a very big one but still, considering the man who will never use it again, the staircase seems to loom before me, enormous and unapproachable. The window on the wall behind it is rectangular, the slowly weakening sunlight streaming in from above passes through the space, appearing to strengthen as it throws a beam like an angular spotlight or a bar-less cell window upon the floor. The light suddenly seems like a promise, a promise of freedom, of something good waiting upstairs, and curiosity bubbles up inside me as if to lift me up to the second floor, for a peek at the unknown realm even my employer cannot enter.  
He emerges from a corner darkened by shadows, smartly dressed, sitting in a wheelchair. I make my way over to him, offer my hand.

"Mr. Morrow, right? My name's Isla Posey, and I'll be here to take care of the house from now on. Pleasure to finally meet you in person."

He smiles wryly as if to tell me he is neither pleased with nor proud of the man in the wheelchair finally meeting me for real. The smog of alcohol and cigarette smoke resides in every corner. This is no fresh smoke that hasn't had a chance to escape out into the air; it's a mist months of steady smoking has producedㅡno doubt the smell of liquor has been building up for some time too. Oddly enough the place seems fairly clean. I turn to look upon my employer once more, the brilliant jade green of his eyes contrasting with the dark circles beneath them and the dark bitterness smoldering within. How could he just let one accident, tragic though it was, to topple and crush him so, enough to let himself sink in a sludge of spirits and nicotine and waste away all that was given him? Of course I wouldn't know; I've never lived a life like his.

No one born an in-valid could live a life like his if they wanted to.

"Shall I clean upstairs as well? Any rooms maids aren't allowed in?"

"If you want. And there are none. Even if there were, I certainly couldn't stop you from going in." His eyes are on the staircase.

He wheels away somewhere, popping in a cigarette lighted just moments before.

"Start cleaning when you feel like it...Just do it well, all right? Call me at the staircase if you need me. I'll be back in a bit."

The rank haze is getting to me. I go around opening every window I see on the first floor and stick my head out of one for a minute to clear my head. After that I go back to where I started and decide which room to tackle first; I've decided to save the living room for last since I'll have to go through it to get to other rooms. My employer hasn't exactly provided a map of the house, but I'll get around. I choose a random door near my window and walk inside.

 It's a study by the looks of it. Not too big, desk in the corner, a few bookcases lining a wall. I'm curious about the kind of books that live in them, but I'll get a chance to see that later. I switch on the vacuum cleaner from Marileau's Maids and get to work. Thankfully the decor's minimalistㅡnot much stuff to lift in order to clean under it. The desk is not without dust, but it's obvious Jerome Morrow uses it quite often; most likely to read. There's a lamp and a bookstand, and no plush chair one would think of curling up in with a book. Then I remember he's paralyzed.

I spy a bottle lying around in the shadows under the desk. Make that two bottles. I guess my nose has already gotten accustomed to the smell in the house not to trace them right off. Does he drink while he reads? I wonder if whatever alcohol does to the brain can make even the most tedious tale seem enlightening. I rummage in my apron for a black plastic bagㅡessential item for every housekeeperㅡ and scoop the bottles in it, careful not to throw them inside. I don't want any shards hanging around in the bottom of a flimsy bag. Then I move over to the bookcase to inspect its contents. A lot of the books have been taken out and read at least once, and dust hasn't gathered much, but I pull out my pocket vacuum cleaner and blow off any visible specks anyway. I read the titles as I work. A lot of the books here are novels. Classics, mostly. I see a few plays here and there. Shakespeare. I pause to take out Romeo and Juliet and run my finger over the cover lightly. Love at first sightㅡI've always thought such a thing never could exist in the world we live in today. Even if it did happen, something would get in the way and break it. Personality conflicts, way-too-different lifestyles, unrelenting parents. Also the partner's in-validness. Oh, children wouldn't be a problem if you have a lot of money on your hands. The real challenge is how the people around you would treat you. Envy on one side, condescension and contempt on the other. It probably isn't a very pleasant situation to be in, stuck between those views. And I don't think double suicide would do much to solve the problem. It turned out all right for the Montagues and Capulets; their deaths brought back good sense to both families, but once  _you're_ dead, it's all over. Pointless.

 

 Finlandia. Polmos Krakow. House of Lords. Black Velvet. All expensive, all empty. These are just some of the bottles of liquor I've picked up around the first floor. I'm heading back to the staircase to find Mr. Morrow, I need to know where I should deposit the bottles and gathered dust. I'm about to leave one of the bedrooms when something on the mahogany dresser next to the bed catches my eye. I back up, grab the also bone dry bottle and walk out, intending to study it closer after I empty the vacuum cleaner. I'm at the staircase but my employer is nowhere to be seen, and my feet and back are starting to complain from an two-and-a-half hours of meticulously ridding rooms of filth. I guess he's been keeping only the living room and the rooms he frequents often moderately clean,  because other than those the place is a dust kingdom. I seat myself on the bottom step of the staircase and stare at my latest find. I don't know the name of its brand. It's a colorless, label-free, angular one with a long smooth neck, and there's a bit of liquid left swirling around at the bottom. I wonder how he got the label off so cleanly, and why he bothered to do that at all. I've never managed to get all the sticky off a bottle even with water, though I do have my reasons for doing so. The glass is thick and the subtle waves beneath the uniform surface reminds me of the rippling pattern light above a pool casts onto the tiles, of pure, still water undulating lazily in a warm spring breeze. The edges of the bottle catches the sun and gives off a gentle golden gleam. Beautiful. For something that can slowly drain everything a person has out of them alcohol sure does come prettily packaged. 

 Glass and gems and transparent things are my weakness. The pellucidness of the substances mesmerizes me, and a well-made glass ornament can keep me staring at it for hours. Longer if there's liquid or sparkles involved. I saw my first piece of jewelry at age six, my mother's dusty fake aquamarine earrings that still faintly shone, and wished I could be a jeweler. Of course, being an invalid, my ideas and skills were shunted off in favor of those whose fingers were engineered to be nimble and thoughts tailored especially for creativity. To be fair to whomever did the choosing, I suppose you can't get things done on hope alone, with no formal education easily available. Being self-taught takes you only so far unless you are a genius, ordered or otherwise.

 I think of sneaking down to the car to stash my bottle. It doesn't mean anything to him anyway, besides the man drinks so much he won't even notice if one of the bottles has disappeared. Tempting. Very tempting, but then again I wasn't raised to be a magpie.

"Found anything interesting there, Miss Posey? Care to show it to me too?"

My stomach jumps a foot. Hopefully my feet didn't.

"It's nothingㅡnothing at all. Just the light, I thinkㅡ" I get to my feet and force myself to drop my bottle into the bag. Such a pity, I think, to be throwing these all away when they can be sat on a windowsill to sparkle in the sun's smile, or filled with water, lined up in a row, and blown into to make some music. I try to ignore the bottles' plea to take them home with me but there are some beauties in here that I really do not want to throw away. I try to get it out of my mind and turn to my employer to ask him about the garbage chute. I notice he has a glass in his left hand and seriously doubt he'd have brought a pitcher of water.

"Let me know when you're done with that, will you, Mr. Morrow?" I say, gesturing to the nearly empty bottle of vodka. He simply tips what's left of the liquor into his glass and comes over to hand me the bottle. Ah no, I see it's another masterpiece of glasswork heading straight into the trash. I hesitate.  
"Um, Mr. Morrow, would it be all right if I take some bottles home with me?" Oh, what does it matter if he thinks me strange, if he wants to know why I'll tell.

"The bottles? What for?"

"Well, because they're so prettyㅡI mean, look at them, some of these seem a shame to be thrown out. And," I add before Jerome Morrow's expression of surprise morphs into one of derision, "I'd like to paint some of them, when I have time."

I can just picture how my paintings will turn out. One will be of a bottle of gin, sitting at a windowsill, before a blue, blue sky, glistening like crystal. Another will be of the bottle of vodka I have in my hand, how it will look with a veil of shimmering water that glows green in the sun, half bobbing in the stream with brown pebbles under it and leaves like green lace waving above. Perhaps I will paint my label-less bottle glowing like gold, just the way it looked when I was holding it. I don't know if any of those will come out just as I imagined they would, but I do so want to try and I'm really regretting not bringing at least a pencil with me to sketch them out. My employer is looking at me with some interest, like he is only just beginning to see me as something other than an invisible in-valid maid.

"You paint? What other things do you paint besides glass bottles?"

"Oh, anything. Flowers, the sky, things in my head, the neighbor's cat, you know. I don't think I'm much of a portrait artist, though."

"Have you tried a portrait before?"

"Yes, of my father. It looked nothing like him, I've scrapped it." I shrug. "No in-valid ever comes perfect."  
His expression clouds over. What did I say? I decide to find out where I should drop off the trash and end the conversation before I accidentally screw up again. I'm about to ask him when he answers me softly, almost speaking to himself.

"In the end, nobody is."

 

 Mr. Morrow didn't actually say that I should clean the second floor. I've emptied out the dust bag, painstakingly selected which bottles I was going to take home and disposed of the others. Vacuuming's finished, mopping's finished, I now modestly claim the first floor spick-and-span. I check my watch and see it's already 7:30. I haven't even had dinner yet. Just at that moment the lovely, warm scent of cooking food faintly wafts by my nose and my stomach wakes up for real. That's it, I'm calling it a day and going home. I'd much rather sit and eat with my parents than dine with someone I barely even know, anyway. I'm about to pack my bottles in another plastic bag when a thought hits me. I run up the helix stairs and place the bottles next to the stair landing, making sure none of them will get in my way when I start cleaning upstairs tomorrow. I scurry back down the stairs, meaning to find my employer and say goodbye quick. My stomach always gets in a knot if put off meals for long, and I when I say long I don't mean long in the literal sense. I'm about to use my nose to trace my way back to the kitchen when the man himself comes wheeling out from it to meet me.

"I'd better be going now, Mr. Morrow. Dinner's waiting."

"You can grab a bite here if you want. Aren't you hungry?" Oh, God, am I hungry. My insides must have ears, judging from the way they suddenly start protesting my decision to just leave.

I shake my head as I head back to the door. I don't think I'm ready for a dinner with my gloomy employer yet, who practically has a rain cloud hanging over his head. "I'll live. Oh, do you mind if I use your phone for a minute? I need to tell my parents I'm on my way."

He nods and hands me his cell phone. I quickly dial home and wait for someone to pick up. Maybe Dad would be home by now. I hope soㅡa dinner table with Dad always makes the atmosphere a little bit brighter, Mom's smile wider and my mood better. Mom answers.

"Mom, it's me, I'm done for today."

"Good job, sweetheart. We'll be waiting for you. Be careful on your way back."

"Will do, Mom. See you in a bit."

I snap the phone closed and hand it back. Surprising that he's still holding onto this thing when Smartphones are practically the only kind of cell phone you can find nowadays.

"So, about the bottlesㅡ"

Jerome waves his hand dismissively. "Take any one you want from them. It doesn't matter." His eyes seem to come alive a little as he adds, though the corners of his mouth hasn't moved an inch. "But you have to promise you'll show me your paintings when you've finished with them."

I smile at him. "All right. I'll do my best." He unlocks the door for me and I step outside, into the refreshingly cool air.

"Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Morrow. I'll see you tomorrow!"

I'm back in Dad's grumbly old car, heading back down the drive and towards that 1-hour commute back home that is certain to be punctured throughout with hunger pains. To get my mind off it I watch the road ahead, keeping an eye on traffic and picturing all the paintings I'm going to work on tomorrow, first thing after cleaning's finished. The long strip of red in the western sky and the colors melting into it worms its way into my mind, and so does the image of Jerome Morrow's apartment, light dotting it like stars and silhouetted against the darkening sky.

 

 


End file.
